Roses
by SMKLegacy
Summary: Josh's POV. There are roses on Donna's desk on Valentine's Day... (PG for language)
1. Morning Muses

**Disclaimers:**  _The West Wing_ and all the familiar faces belong to the creative genius of Aaron Sorkin and to his gifted team of producers and writers.  I'm just borrowing them to exorcise this story from my head so I can get on with the _Scarecrow and Mrs. King_ story I've been trying to write for 6 months.  We won't discuss the work I get paid to do that I'm not taking care of right now…

***********

Roses 

There are roses on Donna's desk.  There are roses on Donna's desk on Valentine's Day.  There are roses on Donna's desk on Valentine's Day and I don't know who sent them.  

I don't think I did.

See, it's like this.  I, Joshua Lyman, once again screwed up with Amy Gardner.  This is nothing new – obviously, or I couldn't have screwed up once again.  What is new is that this time, it was actually something serious, such that I can almost understand her being uncommunicative 12 hours later.  

I called her Donna.

Okay, all you Freudians out there are laughing and saying, "I told you so," but it wasn't in any sexual context.  In fact, to anyone else, it might even have been funny.  Amy was assisting me.  Donna is my assistant.  So I called Amy "Donna."  Twice.  Maybe three times.  On the day before Valentine's Day.  And I didn't notice.

I think Amy's mad at me not because I called her Donna, really, but because I didn't notice.  She had to tell me.

Which she did, in no uncertain terms.  CJ thinks that the bruise on my cheek is a great color for eyeliner.  Plum Delish, or something equally inane.  But I digress.

Amy slapped me when I laughed at the mistake.  And the bruise that CJ is so enamored of hurts like hell, even after the icepack I slept on last night.  Amy is warmer – but then, I suppose you'd guess that.

Back to the roses on Donna's desk on Valentine's Day – the ones that came from I don't know whom.  See, after Amy left last night, I did what I usually do when bad things happen.  I had a couple of beers.  Well, three or four.  I don't think it was five, because I never threw up, which I usually do after five beers.

And then I thought I'd try to make it up to Amy, so I called a 24-hour florist and paid an arm, a leg, and at least two major organs for 3 dozen long-stem roses to be delivered…

But I can't remember where I sent the 3 dozen long-stem roses.  And, even worse, I can't remember whose name I put on the card.  I was so drunk and so worried about screwing up again that I think I might have sent the roses to Donna with a note that says, "Amy, I love you.  Josh."

Which might be marginally better than sending 3 dozen long-stem roses to Amy with a note saying "Donna, I love you.  Josh."

More preferable would be a phone call from Amy saying, "Thanks, J, the roses are beautiful.  Not as beautiful as Tahiti might have been, but pretty nice."

I don't honestly know if I even want to contemplate the consequences of the last possibility.  Dear God, if the card in those roses – and I counted them, so I know that someone sent Donna three dozen roses – reads, "Donna, I love you.  Josh," then everything has gone to hell and I might as well curl up and die now.

Oh, not because of what Donna would do.  In fact, I think I might like what Donna would do, in the abstract, and possibly in real life, too.  It's what Amy would do when she finds out.  I wouldn't like what Amy would do in the abstract, either.

So here's my question:  Can I go check the card now, before Donna gets here?  Because if I didn't send those roses, then I'm pretty sure that Amy at least got some roses, and I can then prepare myself for plan A – that's the one where the card says Amy – or plan B – the one where it doesn't.  That's better than having plans C and D to consider, as well, and far less nerve-wracking.

If I didn't send them, who did?  What gomer is she dating now?  She hasn't mentioned anyone.  Of course, we haven't exactly been talking freely since… well, Cliff.  You know why I know his name.

Where is Donna?  I can't even yell at her, because she isn't late yet.  So, I'm gonna go check the card.  See, here I go.  I'm getting up from my desk and going to the door.  I'm walking across the corridor… I'm reaching for the card…

Donna's here.  I can hear her talking with Carol down the hall, and if I hurry, I can look nonchalantly businesslike at my desk so I can watch her when she reads the card.

Okay, this is wrong of me to think since I'm dating Amy – at least I think I am – but I can't remember a more beautiful smile on Donna's face.  Thank you, whomever sent the roses.  That smile was totally worth it.

She's opening the card now.  Damn, my phone is ringing.  

I missed it.  Thank you, Toby Ziegler.  You had to choose that moment to call me and ask me a question about the GDP.  Donna's assistant mask is firmly in place, and I missed the split second of her reaction before she put it on.

There are roses on Donna's desk on Valentine's Day, and I don't know who sent them.


	2. She's Back!

It's now 11:03 a.m.  There are still roses on Donna's desk on Valentine's Day, and I still don't know who sent them.

Donna is being more Donnaesque than she has since the whole Cliff thing.  I'm taking that as a sign that the roses are a good thing rather than a bad thing, although she hasn't yet revealed anything conclusive to me.  Witness:

"Donna!"

She comes into my office with her ever-present notebook and stack of files, and just a hint of a smile around her eyes.  "You bellowed, oh supercilious one?"  

See?  Back to almost normal.  "I need the file about the thing."

"It's on your desk.  I showed you twenty minutes ago."

"But you didn't tell me who the roses are from twenty minutes ago."

"No, I didn't.  And I'm not telling you now, either.  Do you need me for something serious or may I go back to being the world's best Deputy Deputy Chief of Staff?"

"Back to?"

Okay, I owe the guy who sent the roses – if I didn't send them, of course – big time.  She just gave me one of her trademark sighs and walked out.  A week ago, that remark, had I had the courage to utter it, would have earned me a tirade.

It's now 11:06 and I have just about convinced myself that one of three things has happened:  A) Donna got the roses with a card that says "Donna, I love you, Josh."  B)  Amy got the roses with a card that says "Amy, I love you, Josh," and Donna got roses from someone other than yours truly.  C)  Donna and Amy both got roses from me that said "I love you, Josh."

I'm kind of liking option C, except that the complications of that are far too confusing to contemplate at this point in the day – even though it has been a strangely quiet day.  I can't seriously hope that this might be the case, though, because I specifically remember counting my extremities and my organs last night in my drunken stupor as I was trying to justify the cost of the roses that I intended to send to Amy as an apology.

You may have noticed that I've eliminated the possibilities that Amy got roses with a card that said, "Donna, I love you, Josh," and that Donna got roses with a card that said, "Amy, I love you, Josh."  This, however much I might wish to think so, has nothing to do with my superhuman powers of deduction.  Rather, it is simply because I am still alive at this point in the morning that I have come to at least that much of a conclusion.  

Amy probably would have exercised a "Scorched Josh" policy in full view of the White House staff.  Possibly the Press Corps, too, if she could wrangle it from CJ, who isn't her biggest fan but might have agreed just to maintain the Sisterhood.  

Donna would have been slightly less dramatic.  She would have emptied the contents of my office and her desk into one gargantuan heap, then set it on fire.  I would then have had a coronary – Sudden Cardiac Arrest, is what they call it now, if I remember the factoids Donna spouted at me months ago.  There isn't a very good survival rate from that, even with good first aid, which is one of the perks about working here at the White House.

I wander from my thesis.  

Who might have sent Donna roses on Valentine's Day?  I suppose maybe that guy who offered her the job with the start up dot com last week might still be wooing her, although she hasn't said anything more about it since her late night rendezvous on the night that Stanley came to see someone other than me.

It's vaguely possible that she is dating someone that I don't know about.  However, given that there is absolutely nothing being said about Donna's love life – or wasn't, until this morning – at the water cooler, the coffee pot, or the photocopier (yes, I do know where it is; I just don't know how to use it), I find it unlikely that she is dating anyone.

Don't look at me like that.  I thrive on information, and if I can't get it directly from the source, then I'll go where I need to to get it.  And in the case of Donna's love life, that means the water cooler, the coffee pot, and the photocopier, because that's where people like Carol, Ginger, and Margaret congregate.  If Donna's not talking to me, she might be talking to them.

Speaking of them, it's time for my 11:20 stroll to the water cooler, the coffee pot, and the photocopier.

*****

Well, that did me no good whatsoever.  Donna has been as clothed-mouth with the girls as she has with me.  But I did find out that the hope I had harbored in my heart – that I could somehow sneak a peek at the card while Donna is at lunch – is dashed before I could even maneuver her into going out for a while.  She has the card tucked inside her shirt.

Don't even go there.  I wouldn't dream of … well, okay, I might dream of going after the card, but I certainly wouldn't do it.

Amy would kill me.  And we've already determined that she hasn't because I didn't send her roses with the wrong card, so I'm not anxious to give her another reason.

I should call Amy.  It's Valentine's Day – I should at least attempt to make up with my girlfriend by taking her out.

But she hasn't spoken to me for going on 16 hours now, and even though this morning I could kind of see why she might be upset at me for calling her by my assistant's name while we were working on a position paper, it's not like I screamed "Donna" in the midst of a night of passion.  I haven't screamed "Amy" in the midst of a night of passion, either, but we are _not_ discussing that.

Donna interrupts my thoughts.  "Josh, your watch sucks."

"We've established that.  What makes you tell me that not-so-news at this particular point in the day?"

"You are due in Leo's office for the meeting about the thing in exactly 2 minutes and thirty seconds."

I look at my watch.  "Donna, that meeting is at noon.  It's only 11:42."

That exasperated sigh comes again, and I am forced to think that it's a beautiful sound which has been absent in my life for far too long.  Come on – three months is a pretty long time!  "Josh, your watch sucks.  It is now 11:58."

I fumble around on my desk for the file about the thing until Donna finds some sympathy for me and plucks it out from under three other files.  "Okay, I'm going to the meeting about the thing," I say unnecessarily to my beautiful assistant, who rolls her deep blue eyes at me and shoos me out of my office ahead of her.

"Josh," she calls down the hall as I'm running toward Leo's office and the meeting that I will be late for in 46 seconds, "I'm leaving at 7 tonight."

I stop and turn in mid-stride.  For the record, that hurts.  "Why?"

"Because I have something to do."

"A date?"

Donna scowls.  "No, Joshua, not a date.  I have something to do.  So I'm leaving at 7."

I should say no, but the eyes staring at me from down the hall have just a touch of desperation in them, I think.  "Okay.  I'm late."

"Yeah.  Go."  A smile, a smaller version of the one I saw when she first saw the roses.  "Thanks."

I feel good going into the meeting.  Donna is back.

But I still don't know who gave Donna the roses that are sitting on her desk on Valentine's Day.


	3. The Rose King

It's now 20 minutes to 7 by Donna's watch that doesn't suck.

Amy hasn't spoken to me in 23 hours and 20 minutes.

Donna is back in her best form, snarky and feisty and in control as ever.  

And there are still roses on Donna's desk on Valentine's Day.  I still don't know who sent them.

I'm loving it.

Well, not the part about Amy not speaking to me or not knowing who sent the roses, of course, but the part about Donna being back to normal after the whole Cliff thing.  I've missed those sighs and her eyes rolling at me when I do something she thinks is monumentally stupid.

Come to think of it, I think she rolled her eyes when she found out about the whole Tahiti thing with Amy.  Hmmm….

Donna announced to me at lunchtime that she is leaving at 7 tonight.  In a moment of weakness, I said it was okay.  Unfortunately, it's been so quiet today that I can't think of a single good reason to make her stay.

I have considered the possibility of making her stay until she shows me the card that came with the roses.  According to the assistants' gossip network – perhaps that should be Assistants' Gossip Network – she tucked the card inside her shirt and hasn't let anyone else see it.  Nor has she divulged the identity of the sender.  He is now called The Rose King in the office.

This wouldn't bother me under other circumstances.  Well, okay, it would, but not for the same reasons.  It bothers me now because I still can't remember to whom and where I sent roses last night after my fight with Amy.

It wasn't really a fight.  She got a bit pissed, well, a lot pissed, really, that I called her Donna while she was taking dictation for a brilliant thought I had as we worked on a position paper.  Amy was assisting me, and that's usually Donna's job, so it was an honest mistake.

Anyway, after Amy left me a parting gift of a really ugly bruise on my cheek – it has stopped hurting, particularly after Donna sympathetically kissed it when I whined about it after lunch, and no, I'm not delving into the ramifications of Donna kissing it and making it better – I proceeded to get drunk and then order roses as an apology.

Not until the man on the other end of the phone at the 24-hour florist told me the cost of 3 dozen roses did I realize that today is Valentine's Day.  Why 3 dozen?  I like the number 36, I guess.  My intention was to send them to Amy with a card that said, "Amy, I love you.  Josh."

I don't think Amy got the roses.  Most women, even when they aren't speaking to a man, would be thrilled enough to at least call and say "Thank you."  Even CJ agreed with that, because Toby has sent her flowers a number of times (we won't be discussing that with anyone, since CJ threatened to make my cheeks match if I did) when they weren't speaking and she always called him.

Of course, I now know with granite certainty that Amy didn't get roses with a card that reads, "Donna, I love you.  Josh."  By lunch, I was fairly convinced, since I was still alive, but now that it's been nearly 24 hours, I am sure that the wrong roses didn't arrive.

Which leads me to think that the most likely scenario at this point is that the 3 dozen roses on Donna's desk are from me, and that the card reads, "Donna, I love you.  Josh."

"Josh?"  Donna's musical voice interrupts my thoughts, which I'm sure she believes are centered on the future of our great nation.  I'll let her think that.

"Yes, Donna?"

"It's 6:55.  You have a meeting with Sam and Toby in 20 minutes, and then, assuming that nothing else happens, you can go home early tonight."

"Really?"  It _has_ been a quiet day.  "How long is my meeting with Sam and Toby?"

"It's scheduled for 45 minutes, but Sam thinks you'll be done early.  He says there's just one paragraph of the speech that's getting flack from State."

I lean back in my chair with a yawn and a big stretch.  Maybe it's my imagination, but I see Donna's azure eyes widen and a smile play across her face as I do.  "Anything else?"

"No.  I'm leaving now.  I'll call you at 7:10 to remind you about your meeting."

"Why don't you just stay until 7:10 to make sure I actually get up and go?"

That scowl.  Can a scowl be beautiful?  Maybe it's just because we're back to normal.  "Josh, I have a thing.  I'm leaving now.  Call me before you leave here so I can give you your schedule for tomorrow."

"Why don't you give it to me now?"

"Because you won't remember it."

I won't remember it if she tells me later, either, but this is our normal ritual when she leaves early – unless she's going on a date.  I relax now, because it's official that she doesn't have a date for Valentine's Day.  She would be giving me my schedule now if she did.

"Sam and Toby and I may go out for drinks later.  Want to come?"  I like it when Donna comes out with us.  She takes good care of me when I'm drunk.  If she had been there last night, the whole rose thing… well, it wouldn't have happened, but for a whole other set of reasons that I'm not going to think about right now.

"Sam's got a date and Toby refuses to go out in public on Valentine's Day.  So just go straight home, okay, Josh?"  That's a command voice.  I sometimes wonder if Donna is really on an undercover assignment from the Marines or something, the way she can give orders.

"Um, okay.  See you tomorrow."

"Later," she replies, and turns to leave for the night.

I actually take the time to read the draft of the speech Toby and Sam and I are working on tonight before the meeting.  I think it's the first real work I've done all day except for the staff meeting and the meeting with Leo and Bruno and some other consultants about the thing.  

Maybe that should be "The Thing" – as in the whole reelection thing.

I wander again.  My phone rings, and I pick it up, knowing exactly who will be on the other end.  "Josh Lyman, best boss in the world," I say.

It's not Donna.  

"Yes, you are.  You call everyone who helps you by your one perfect assistant's name."  Oh, God, it's Amy.

"Uh…" is all I can manage.  That's the 760 verbal going for me yet again.

"We're through," I hear her say, distantly, as if she were in England shouting across the Atlantic.  "I'm not competing with her in any way, shape, or form."

"Wait, Amy – "

"No, J., we're done.  Tahiti was a nice idea, but you're never gonna get beyond Mai Tais in your apartment.  And you, my friend, have a thing for her, and I refuse to come second in your life."

Why can't I come up with a reasonable denial?  All I can say is, "I'm going to Tahiti someday."

"Josh, are there flowers on her desk?"

"No," I answer honestly.  She took them with her.

Amy isn't buying it.  "But there were."

"Yes."

"Who sent them?"

Well, that's the question of the day, isn't it?  "I don't know," I answer honestly again.

"I didn't get flowers today.  Not a single carnation, tulip, daisy, or rose.  Nor did I get chocolate."

My other line is ringing.  "Yeah, Amy, I got to go.  I've got a thing now and my phone – "

"It's over, J.  Don't look for me later."

I think I should be more upset than I am, and maybe later, I'll think about it and get drunk again.  But now, all I can manage is, "Whatever," as I reach for the phone to connect the other line.

That I do this successfully is testament to how good Donna is at her job.  "Josh Lyman."

"You're late if you don't go now," Donna's voice reminds me.  I hear elevator music in the background, and I realize that she must be at Union Station.

"'k, I'm going now."

"Call me later," she reminds me.  That's unusual.  I wonder why she's so insistent on me calling her?

"'k."  I'm off to my meeting.

And I'm strangely content for the day, given that my girlfriend just broke up with me and that Donna had roses on her desk on Valentine's Day.  And suddenly, I am convinced of the identity of The Rose King.


	4. Monumental

Sometimes, neither Sam nor Toby make any sense at all.  Tonight is one of those times.  We've been in this meeting now for thirty-five minutes, going letter-by-letter over one short – forty four words! – paragraph in a short – five page/five minute – speech to the national convention of the Veteran's of Foreign Wars.  The State Department thinks that it's too soft, because Toby gave in to his ex-wife, the Congresswoman, and toned down the rhetoric on the Islamic extremists.  The International Relations Committee thus thinks that it's perfect.

It is our job, in the next ten minutes, to rewrite this paragraph so that neither the State Department nor the House International Relations Committee is happy.  Then we'll know that we've hit the nail on the head and can carry on into the night with a foreign policy that makes as much sense as the Cold War ever did.

I would rather be spending this time trying to figure out if my guess as to the identity of The Rose King is correct.  More accurately, I'd like to be able to admit that I've been using this time to figure out how to verify my deduction, because if I really force myself to be honest, that's the reason that neither Toby nor Sam is making any sense at all.

"Why don't we simply say that we will not tolerate extremism of any kind when it leads to the violation of the basic human rights of freedom of speech, freedom of religion, education, and self-determination," I say in total frustration.  "Political, economic, and religious extremism are all equally intolerable and will be resisted by all freedom loving peoples whenever and wherever such injustice arises."

Toby is doing a respectable imitation of a salmon at the moment.  Sam just lays his head back against the couch with his eyes closed, whether in awe or disgust, I can't tell.

"Say that again," the Communications Director finally says, overcoming his fascination with fish.

So I do, and this time the awe is evident in Sam's eyes.

"You are 'da man,'" my best male friend shouts, jumping up from his seat on the sofa to thump me on the back.

"Of course I am," I say modestly.  I've known that for years, so it's about time that others recognize this fact and laud me as I so richly deserve.  "Are we done here?  'Cause I've got a thing tonight."

Toby's eyebrows arch at that.  "You mean you and Amy actually lasted past the two week mark?"

Immediately feeling like a popped balloon, I stammer out an answer.  "Uh, no, actually, we broke up."

"When?" Sam asked, to my ears without any surprise.

"Tonight."

Neither other man says anything.  After a moment of odd looks between them, I break the silence.  "Okay, so I'm going.  See you tomorrow."  I get up from the chair beside Toby's desk and stride out of his office, intending to go back to my own office and call Donna to implement the plan that just now completed itself in my head.

"Josh, wait," Sam calls after me, and he catches up in a jog.  "You probably shouldn't be alone tonight.  Why don't you call someone and go out?"  He thinks for a moment.  "Or you could go ask Toby."

"Sorry," Toby's voice comes from behind us, "I don't go out in public on Valentine's Day.  Besides, I have plans at home."

Both of us turn and look at the taciturn Ziegler, who hasn't quite had time to hide the smile that crossed his face as he thought about those plans.  "You do?" Sam asks a millisecond before I can.

"Yes.  Good night."  And with that, Toby leaves.

"How about CJ?" Sam suggests.

"She's got plans, too."

"You and Donna were in good form today."  His suggestion remains unspoken.

I chew on that silent plea for a few seconds, then shrug with as much devil-may-care attitude as I can.  "The Rose King asked her out."

"Oh."  He looked puzzled for a moment, then shrugged.  "Well, cut yourself off at 4 beers, would you?  You're so hard to deal with the next morning after 5."

"Yeah, whatever."  Sam waves as he strolls off, then begins to whistle some nameless tune in preparation for his date.  My guess would be Ainsley, after his comment about her being enough to make a dog break his leash.  Apparently, she was flattered.

Now I am alone, and I have to call my best female friend for my schedule tomorrow.  That, and to ask her out, because I just told Sam that The Rose King asked her out.  And I am pretty sure after that conversation with what's her name that I am The Rose King.

She answers her cell phone on the second ring.  "You're right on time.  Did you get it done?" she asks without preamble.

"Yeah, and this time, I'm da man," I say with no little amount of pride in my voice.  "So I thought we could celebrate, if you're done with your thing."

There's jazz playing on the other end, something mellow and sensuous, and I suddenly wonder if I really have interrupted The Rose King and Donna on a date.  Her voice, when she finally replies, is low and husky, and I am thinking way too much about where that card has been since she read it this morning.  "No, Josh, I think you should just go home and go to sleep.  The change of pace will do you well."

"One drink?" I plead.  I really do want to see her, even if it's just for a little while.  I want to see that smile one last time so there's a better chance that I'll dream of something better than beeping medical monitors and rifles and broken glass.  Don't worry – it's not a recurrence of the PTSD.  This, Stanley assures me, is reasonably normal as long as I don't wake up screaming.

"Maybe," she relents.  "I'll call you later at home.  Not on your cell phone – at home."  There's that command voice again.  "And be sober.  If you aren't there or you're drunk when I call, you'll lose any chance of changing my answer."

Since that is indeed what I want to do, I assure her that I'm going home to do something other than drink, and am in fact putting on my coat as I finish the conversation.

*****

I drove in today, so I have to drive home instead of enjoying the unusually balmy air for February in Washington.  I'm at my building less than 10 minutes after I hang up from my call with Donna.  Looking up toward my windows, it's dark, as I expect, even though I was hoping that someone might be waiting for me.

Then again, the only other person with a key is Donna, so that was more than a little unrealistic on my part.

The elevator from the parking garage isn't working, so I trudge up the stairs toward my flat with growing resignation.  Donna will call me later, but she won't want to go out.  We may be back to almost normal, but we've gained so much ground in one day that I can't hope for more.  So maybe I'll have one beer while I'm waiting for her call.

As I arrive on my floor, I can hear music that sounds strikingly similar to that I heard playing over Donna's cell phone a few minutes ago.  It further depresses me, because someone else is undoubtedly enjoying that music with the woman they love more than life itself –

I can't believe I just admitted that.  Oh, wow.

Wham, slam, al-a-kazam.  I am reeling as I make it to my door and insert the key.

Then I realize that the music is coming from inside _my_ apartment, and I reach for my cell phone.

CJ answers on the third ring.  "Make it fast, Josh," she commands, as though I've interrupted something.  A thought zips across my mind that both CJ and Toby have plans but not public plans tonight…

"How did you know it was me?"

"Caller ID, knucklehead.  It's the 21st century.  Now, what do you want?"

I clear my throat.  "I'm giving you the heads up that I am about to do something monumental."

"Monumentally stupid or monumentally intelligent?"

After a quick yet careful review of the situation, I reply.  "Both."

CJ is obviously not used to such blatant honesty, because it takes her three seconds to respond.  "Don't blow it with her, Josh."

I take that as permission to unlock and open my door, and sign off from my call with an admonition to my friend in the Sisterhood.  "Be nice to Toby tonight, CJ."

She couldn't hide the gasp of surprise, and I am smiling broadly as I power down the phone and put it back in my coat pocket.  Da man is on a roll.

I turn back to my front door and turn the key, open the door and step inside.  

The music pounds out a slinky rhythm and the candles around the room seem to bend and sway with the beat.  The roses from her desk sit on the table beside the couch, and their fragrance fills the air.

I take a few more steps inside to find some wonderful aroma floating through the air, making me fully aware that lunch was a very long time ago, and behind that I catch a hint of a scent that I have enjoyed every day for almost four years.

She doesn't seem to know that I'm home yet.  I take off my coat and hang it on my coat tree, then slip quietly into my room to get comfortable.  And, truth be told, to clean the bedroom up a little bit.  Just in case.

I come out about five minutes later to find Donna sitting on my couch, sipping a glass of white wine.  Okay, I noticed the wine only after I start to breathe again.

She had indeed been at Union Station when she called me.  At a lingerie store.  I think that no matter what happens in my life, I will always envision Donna in the sapphire gown and robe ensemble that left both everything and nothing to the imagination.

Given my imagination with regard to Donna, that's saying something.

"Did you mean it?" she asks simply.  There is no mistaking what she means; the card is in her fingers as she relaxes into the cushions.

I stand transfixed, unable to work my jaw to make the words in my heart come out.  Instead, I am stuttering, trying desperately to get the single most important word of my life to roll off my tongue.

Finally, it comes.  "Yes."

Much later, deep in the darkest hours of the night, Donna stirs in my arms and reaches up to trace my face with her feathery touch.  "The Rose King," she sighs, and drifts back to sleep.

There were roses on Donna's desk on Valentine's Day, and I sent them.

Fine 


End file.
